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TODAY'S MENU OF DELIGHTS!

Mon, 23 Jan 2012 22:18:56 +0100

       The everchanging sky is a continual source of wonder and nourishment to me. I'm amazed that something so delicious can be zero calories and good for me to indulge in at will. Today it is a collage of blue space, with white puffs lowlighted with sporadic areas of gray. Sunlight brightens from behind and manages to shine through the gaps.   It is especially welcome after last week's Winterland visitation.   But then, no matter what the sky lets through, I always find beauty in the diversity it displays.
     The patches of snow left now are mishaped blobs spotted with dirt, Yet, I like them for being removed from driveways, streets and sidewalks so I can drive and walk without fear of bouncing my body on them or playing Demolition Derby. They allow me the freedom to get out of the house into my stream of normalcy (which does not necessarily resemble anyone else's.
    Okay, so I have only gone out today to drop my granddaughter off at school and attend water aerobics so far, but I am delighted that my options are more open. That, for a woman of my age, is something I am increasingly thankful for--waking up alive and able to rejoice at that redundancy. Wow, I have another day to exist on this planet in a breathing, moving state. How great is that?
     Of course, that is immediately met with a morning shower of doubts about my competence in climbing up the mountain of tasks that need to or should be done and those on my want-to list and wondering which approach to take and lamenting that there isn't enough time for all; I may not have all the necessary equipment and knowledge to get to the next ledge even.  Yet, I get up and go and come back here and open the blog and start typing. Wow! I'm moving through the day.  Like Minnie Pearl used to say, "I'm just so glad to be here!" And I'm thankful that Someone has kept me alive for another day with faith that I am able to keep on, which is likely more important that if I ever reach the top,

     No, wait! Every rise is a peak over the last.   Wow! The view is pretty fabulous from this present perspective.

Happy New Year Surprises to You!

Mon, 02 Jan 2012 07:45:31 +0100

    So here it is! Another new year with its expectations. Probably, or should I sey definitely, there will be surprises in store. I certainly hope so. What would life be like if there were none? In theory, it sounds good, but if we could program all our desires and plans in for the year and know they'd all play out perfectly, I'm sure we'd be disappointed. Particularly if our program doesn't sync with those we want to share time and space with. There would have to be an "abort" button available. I'm a traveler who likes to mix up different routes and stops with the familiar, find a new twist or some extra pizzazz now and then.
    I have already procrastinated today.  I should get busy and make my list of what to get busy and do.  I'm still thinking you know.
    Under my personal aspirations for myself will be the usual aspirations for good health in all respects and relationship renewing, discovery and appreciation.
    The first is to express gratitude to God and you riding along with me and seasoning my years with love, humor, inspiration, encouragement, challenges, suggestions, forgiveness, honesty, etc. etc. etc. etc. I could go on and on and on.
    The second is to actually share more musings with you instead of leaving them behind at the service station where they hide in the revision stall. It's that old perfection thing going on.
    The third is poke holes in the striving for perfection bubble.
    May this New Year be an enjoyable adventure with interesting and fun surprises. I look forward to putting the top down and letting them muss with my expectations.

    Oh, yes, if the comment box doesn't show, click on the title of the post. I think I finally got it right. Now that was a major accomplishment for last year!

NATIONAL AUTHORS DAY MEANDERING

Tue, 01 Nov 2011 18:55:42 +0100

    Out of the warm house into a cold, dark, foggy morning I went today, wiped moisture off the car windows in order to see more clearly and not run into anything, turned the ignition switch and announced to the neighborhood I was leaving with a screechy noise that only sounds out on cooler mornings. I completely understand the car's attitude about wanting to wait a littler longer, until brightness and warmth wake up to greet me. But alas, our taxi duties and my choice of wellness activities pulled me out of park into drive with only that initial shrill objection.
    Now the sun is out along with many choices.  Part of me objects that there are too many to accomplish as time has a way of passing me up several times as I run around today's only partially determined course.  I'm looking around at the piles of visible shoulds and thinking about veering off in another direction. While I chide myself for not being more focussed on one project or task at a time, I notice the beauty the tree outside my window is manifesting.  Its mixture of amazing variations of color tones is telling me to celebrate it all: the greens of freshness hanging on to new discoveries, the yellows of lightness laughing at inflexibility; the corals of sassy cheerfulness , the rusts of deepening understandings, the blasting reds confidently flaunting their stuff. Subtle poofs of wind are blowing at the leaves now, perhaps reminding them to enjoy their time before their descent.
     Although the array on my pallette may diminish, and abilities to use them wane, I pray I will continue to start up, engage and take off--without too much screeching.

THE HUNT FOR SOMEWHERE

Wed, 02 Nov 2011 04:51:34 +0100

Now where is it? I know it's here somewhere.
I had it just the other day and put it somewhere
that would be the logical place it should go
and where I'd look when I wanted it.
But, I've looked several times where
it should be, and it's not there.
Where could it be?

Maybe, I decided it should go somewhere else
and have blocked out where that somewhere is.
Or maybe, I took it out and didn't put it back.
In which case, I laid it down somewhere.
How can I figure out where that other somewhere is?

Okay, I need to turn on the search engine
in my brain and pull up memories of where all
I had it and when, and that's not easy.
Hmm. I can remember it being on the dining room table,
and once on the TV table and in my mail basket.
But, I remember taking it out of there
and looking at it while sitting on my bed,
possibly putting it on my dresser or table.
But it's not in any of those places now!

I've had it in my car; nope, not there.
Don't know if I took it on my last few short trips
or to a medical office where I might need it.
I wouldn't have, couldn't have thrown it away.
Unless, I've succumbed to the big A. NO!

Wait a minute, I need to look further
in this place I should have put it.
Dig deeper in the paper pile. There it is!
Right where it's supposed to be!
Whew! Thank you, God!

I really should use a colorful folder,
easier to spot, and put it in a more obvious,
logical place, somewhere I'll absolutely be sure
to find it when I need it.

To All My Mothers

Sun, 08 May 2011 15:13:12 +0100

To All My Mothers and Other Friends

In this life, I’ve had many mothers, relatives, in-laws, friends and their mothers, mentors and teachers unbeknownst to whom I owe great debts for being part of who I have become and aspire to be. I am a montage of their strength and tenderness, boldness and meekness, humorousness and seriousness, faith and doubt, order and chaos.

Besides giving me a home during my grade school years, my dear Aunt Mary, you planted unconditional love and “Golden Rule” living into my inner garden. Jenny, my adopted grandmother, you patiently listened to my extended after school chatterings, shared your own stories, and sang old tunes with me. Connie, mother of my long-time best friend Sharon, I felt like one of your own daughters. I admired and wished for your homemaking skills and am thankful you fostered my faith. Gladys, my stepmother, you helped me through teen romance break-ups and encouraged my independence. Priscilla, good friend Char’s mother, your upbeat attitude, readiness to help others and openness to the new and different continues to inspire me. Mildred, whom I knew first as mother of friend Florene, it’s been a blessing to be your sister-in-law and friend. Your hospitality is legendary as is your resilience through times of turbulence and natural, genuine sincerity.

And it goes out saying that I miss my own Mom,--our visits at my home or hers, our phone calls, catching up and remembering times together. She’s the part of me that gets things done, shops the sales, stays active, interested and likes the tried with a splash of a new recipe too. When I vacation in Montana now, I stop In Helena at the Parrot. It’s like I can still be with her by sitting in the booth and remembering being there with her for a chocolate coke and some candy.

Self Shut Up Your Murmuring

Fri, 06 May 2011 05:17:48 +0100

I complain about

the cold weather outside

while I sit on my bed

in my cozy fleece robe,

amid comfort-filled quilts

from family and friends.

Here in my own room full of books,

mementoes, partially finished projects,

a closet crammed with clothing,

some just taking up space,

and “my life and loved ones”

picture gallery, I sip hot tea,

play games and communicate electronically.

In open exposure and barest

of shelters, some hunker down

under whatever scrounged materials

might offer protection from elements

of weather, disasters, or

human acts of violence.

Vital and sentimental possessions;

loved ones as well, lost or

abandoned in haste for survival.

With growling stomachs

they doze and pray

for a little relief.

Self, just shut up your murmuring.

You should be ashamed.

And I am

A-CAMPING WE DID GO

Tue, 08 Mar 2011 16:58:38 +0100

A pile of grocery items in a corner of the kitchen,
and a collection of camping gear
near the garage door--clues
of our family’s weekend plan.
Lists on the refrigerator door, what to buy,
what to remember to bring along.
Aromas of fried chicken, potato salad, and cake;
lunch for the first day, wrapped and put aside.

Clothing selections laid out, to be packed in a suitcase.
Tent, sleeping bags, camp stove, axe, fishing gear,
air mattresses, towels, lawn chairs, stools, and lanterns
loaded into the car, the night before.

In dawn’s light, the rest followed:
food and part of the drinks in two ice chests;
three children in the back seat, with
pillows, choices of personal Items,
comic books, magazines, toys, games;
two adults in the front with a watermelon between;
jug of water on passenger’s side floor;
first aid kit, sunscreen, mosquito repellent,
snakebite kit in glove box.

And we were off down the road in the 1948 Chevrolet
(which was magic to have held it all)
for a weekend or longer at Birch Creek Valley,
our vacation home camp. It was family time,
familiar, bonding, mysteriously transforming.

We sang and played car games, driving
through towns with only a gas station, a store,
maybe a bar and restaurant.
Their order was memorized so we knew
how much longer to get to our camping spot
along a creek that spread out a lace of flowing
smaller threads, and beaver designed
holding pools for our fishing.

We set up camp, got tent, beds and
camp stove ready for use later,
put watermelon,beer, and pop
to cool in the creek.
We ate our un-refrigerated chicken,
which miraculously never made us sick,
prepared our poles, tied on our spinners,
and dug up worms near the water.

In the late afternoon, we walked through
purple, yellow and white floral splotched
grass and dangled our bait into the waters.
Before long, we’d feel a tug on our line
and see a flash of our fighting silver catch
as we pulled it in. Nomad fishers we were,
who took just a few and moved along.
My stepmother declared we walked
more than fished as my dad led us
off to yet another beaver pond
and stream offshoot and I sang along
the trail, “I love to go awandering…”

Back at camp, always left open and
never disturbed by others, campfire was lit,
dinner prepared. Fish were cleaned by
whoever caught them, but I bargained with my brothers
to clean mine. Some were cooked, the rest put on ice
for transport home to the freezer for future meals.

We ate, talked and laughed, toasted marshmallows for
S’mores, sat around the fire, stared and poked into
bright orange coals, got smoke in our eyes,
played cards by lantern light, and fell asleep
to lullaby sounds of nature, curious to us city kids.

We awoke smiling and laughing at
our non-singer father, singing part of a song,
“heap big smoke, but no fire,”
as he got the morning fire crackling.
We emerged from our sleeping bags, grabbed
our poles and bait and went to invite some fish
back for a breakfast fry with bacon, eggs,
and potatoes. Then we rested, read, and
played around before more fishing, eating, etc.

In the morning, we’d pack up, clean the campsite,
and travel back into civilization (only ten miles away)
stopping at a restaurant and bar for lunch.
Those of us in the backseat were
by now, tired of each other’s constant
company and eager to catch up with
our friends, watch TV and listen to our
records. Those in the front
were thinking about the unloading,
putting things away, and getting some
space and peace away from the
backseat squabbling.

This was our low-cost family vacation,

nature appreciation education.

On Christmas Eve

Fri, 24 Dec 2010 15:48:58 +0100

The Day is upon us, and, as usual, there is much left undone.
It used to bother me that no matter how hard I tried,
I could never finish every detail of the perfect Christmas.
At least, the perfect Christmas that was etched into
the motivation chamber of my brain.

Now, I try for okay and what's done is enough.
We will celebrate and worship, exchange gifts
and eat more than we need to.
We gather together with family and friends
and are grateful to be loved
imperfections and all.

Imperfection, after all, is relative.
The love of God is here,
born yesterday and today.
Perfect enough!

ADVENTS PAST - PART TWO

Sat, 18 Dec 2010 07:28:58 +0100

See It, Hear It, Feel it?

Within the cold December air we inhaled

were sights and sounds that attached

themselves forever our sensual

strolls through pre-Christmas.

Houses with decorated doors and bright trees

centered in living room windows,

a contrast against winter-white frosted

ground and rooftops.

Central Avenue, decked out with

lights, mechanical window scenes,

bell-ringing Santas and bundled-up,

bustling humans spewing smokey

white streams of breath.

Singers, alone, in small groups or choirs,
and instrumentalists in varied
numbers performing on street corners
and in Department Stores.

Holiday themed movies and familiar
annual stories we read ourselves
and listened to on radio and in classrooms:
“The Littlest Angel”, “The Little Matchgirl”,
“The Gift of the Magi,” Yes, Virginia, There
Is a Santa Claus” and, of course,
“The Birth of Jesus”.

Family Christmas parties at lodges
where parents belonged with
talent- show entertainment. My little cousin
sang at one. Santa always arrived
while we sang “Jingle Blells” at the end and
passed out netted stockings full of candy.

My purchases to give, made at the “dime stores”;
handkerchiefs, headscarves or aprons
for grandmothers; perfume or bath sets
for other women, aftershave lotion, handkerchiefs,
ties, pen and pencil sets for the men.

We wrote our lists, short ones,
lurked with our antennas up and fine-tuned
to catch the hushed conversations
of two or more women sharing
their shopping progress with each other.
My cousins and I were often foiled
by the aunts with the flick of a
language switch and we vowed each year
to secretly learn Croation, but never did.

My cousin searched the closets and peered
into sacks hidden in the corner, sometimes,
even opening and rewrapping. I preferred
to be surprised, limiting myself to handling,
shaking and guessing, but did have one
cry “Mama” one year.

Sights, sounds and preparations,
secrets, surprises and
warmth in the familiar routines—
like Mary, we keep them in our hearts.

Radiant treasures of memories

that push against the

dark, the cold, the bleak,

It’s Christmas coming again,
with another chance to see it,
hear it, and get it.

Advent Pasts Part I

Tue, 07 Dec 2010 05:12:48 +0100

Advent Pasts of My Childhood.

The Advents of my past began with practices for the upcoming Christmas Seasonal performances. Upon the return to school and Sunday School after Thanksgiving, we were given scripts, music and rehearsal schedules and lesson plans in both settings were arranged around the necessary preparations.
In elementary school in the forties in Great Falls, Montana, I guess it was taken for granted that whether you attended church or not, you were Christian and would participate. There might have been some objections, but being ethno-culturally challenged myself, I was unaware of them. Everyone in my classes learned and sang both secular and religious Christmas music and spoke the lines that were assigned to them with confidence or trepidation.

Both our instruction time and content during the month of December wrapped around this holiday season, which seemed only normal since family and community life did too. Our artwork of Christmas stockings and trees, Santa’s, candy canes, stars, as well as nativity figures and scenes decorated our classrooms. We learned about the history of the Holiday and read the classic literature of our annual traditions. We made cards and gifts and discussed the upcoming party.

Songs were practiced in our individual classrooms, combined grade level classes, and, during the last week, in the gym where we marched in took our seats, stood up at the music teacher’s gestures and took our turns singing. After all the practices, I missed the first three years’ performances because I was ill, with measles, mumps, and German measles in successive years. The fourth year, I had a cold, but declared I would be there no matter what.

At Our Savior’s Lutheran Church, we had fewer practice sessions to be ready for the pageant. I mostly remember singing in those black skirts, white tops with big black bow ties at the neck. Later, when I was in the Junior High Chapel Choir, we had our own plum colored robes. In fourth grade I was Mary, which wasn’t as exciting as it sounded as I had to sit on a chair staring at the doll in the manger throughout the whole program. My dad said I did a lot of wiggling around which I imagine I did. I doubt that Mary just sat there all the time and I think it would have been more realistic to have my own doll that cried when you moved it, took water from a little bottle into a hole in its mouth and had to have the wet rag diaper changed. But who am I to change tradition? At one church I belonged to in my adult years, one of the newest babies in the congregation arrived from the other side of draped box at the moment Mary “brought forth her first-born son” and proceeded to steal the show. Which, after all the waiting, expectation and preparation for Christmas, is as it should be. Right?